News you can refuse

It seems like eons since my dose of daily affairs came from the idiot box. A reflection on those days when my grandpa religiously switched the Onida on at the strike of 8.30 pm to hear that distinctive Doordarshan tune gives me goosebumps. Not that the news readers of yore made a lasting impression on my then impressionable mind, but the fact that it seemed like a fair charter of the day's proceedings minus excessive melodrama. The inclusions may have had an eulogic tilt towards the men in the PMO but then the 30 odd minutes didnt seem too judgemental on the happenings. Take2 and I find myself accessible to so many channels beaming news that I run out of my fingers that I ususally put to use for the purpose of counting. Business suits may well be the order of the day for the anchors but the smile they wear these days seems more a matter of satire than attire. And do they talk glib, one may be forgiven for believing that she was actually listening to a JAM session than a statement of the day's press. "Scoop" seems to have undervalued to such an extent that discovering the visiting head of state's undergarment colour falls under that category. The good man ( and woman ) is now surrounded by other good men ( and women ) who analyse our PM's body language to the extent that you may well be in the position to find out if he suffers from rheumatism or tooth ache. The pitch of the voice betrays such emotion at the exclusion of Saurav from the team like a real bomb had just been dropped, not by the selectors but by the Pak army. Then, there is the phenomenon of "exclusivity". A 5 line chat with Hrithik on what he feels after becoming a pa is exclusive only to 7 channels. And if you are courageous enough to be privy to the scrolls running on top , bottom and every inch of the TV screen where the reader doesnt figure, you may be pleasantly surprised to know that 80 percent of people think that they will die of heart failure while the rest just dont think. So, pick up your phone and decide where you belong. These programmes do cater to people like me who boast of an IQ lesser than his weight. News and associated analysis leave no doubt in you about the propriety of a particular item on the ledger. What with all the expert talk, why do I need to flex my top floor to judge something. Freedom of speech and expression has rarely been put to use so effectively before. So much so, that I find myself speechless at the glut of piffle that unfolds itself. They conduct stings and run amok with the slightest discovery of malpractice. The associate engineer on the electricity board taking 10k bucks for a new connection does rank along side Monica gate if the great samaritans are to be believed. Inane is the best I can describe these programmes and "best" refers not to my description but their excesses. I have decided not to skip these numbers on my remote only when I feel the need of a sleeping pill. The TV media is dead. Long love the TV media.

At loggerheads with Tipu

A long weekend owing to unforeseen circumstances in Bangalore can lead to the mass exodus of souls suffering from wanderlust. Not one to take on long jaunts, I restricted myslef to the great ruler's kingdom that is Mysore. The ticket booking issue once again raised its mighty hood only to unravel the changing face of the Indian railways once again. Was a pleasant surprise to be able to book Shatabdi tickets just one day in advance on the internet, thanks to the e-ticketing service from IRCTC. Wonder what competition can do even to elephantine organizations. This (and the Indian telecom sector ) can surely be a case study for analysing the aftermath of private entrepreneurship against state owned cartels. The Mysore palace came up first principally because of its proximity to my lodgings and secondarily becuase of its operative timings. An afternoon spent on the sprawling complex can be rewarding if you manage to save your naked feet from the charring ground. Extravagance of the Wodeyars stares you in the face with facile paintings adorning the walls and a fair sprnikling of colour all around. Space certainly wasnt at a premium for the erstwhile royals. However, couldnt really see why photography wasnt allowed within the premises. The main attraction, an unimpeded view of a grand passage leading to the palace from the first floor where the monarch himself might have presided over the proceedings. Next in line were the Vrindavan gardens. Located in the basin of the Krishnarajsagr dam around 20 kms from Mysore, this botanical landscape is a sight for sore eyes. Lush green presents itself over the whole landscape and flowers are not just an embellishment but the principal fabric of this lovely panorama. A light drizzle only added to the charm of this natural haven. The main draw however remains the lighting that takes over from the sun. A canvass blazing in myriad coulours giving those fountains a look that can best be describes as surreal. A musical fountain capable of highly complex patterns attracts the most attention. A place for shutterbugs by far. One can be intimidated with the crowds on weekends here but the humanity is bearable for the sight. Day two was devoted to ornithology. The Ranganthittu bird sanctuary flattered to deceive. The blame however may squarely be on my shoulders to have visited the place in the heat of things. The sounds that greeted us made promising forebodings but the originators were nowhere to be seen. A trip on the boat did allow for a few sightings but nothing that can be classified as "risque". The siberian stork seemed to provide a perfect foil to the bats hanging upsides down with its attentive frame. With its breeding season on the way, this aviator seemed to have its beak in every inch of the water. The sanctuary is well maintained and should be a good place for some serious bird watching in the winters. Last but of course not the least was a visit to the great Tipu. His summer retreat termed as "Daulatbagh" depicts his rise and fall along side his exploits in languages and breeding. You read it right, the great Sultan was father to seven strapping sons ( or was it eight ), all dilligently chronicled on the canvass in form of portraits. The paintings on the walls did evoke some feeling of the grandeur that he might have lived and fought in but nothing awe inspiring. Again, a restriction on photography played spoil sport. The last two destinations were covered on an auto-rickshaw that allowed a decent reflection on the coutry side. Green dominated over brown at this time of the year. The return journey on a KSRTC bus proved quite uneventful except for a little brush with a truck on the highway. A trip on a shoestring that didnt disappoint on the whole.

Dogs and Non-Schedues Not Allowed

Am trying to locate a babu who can certify that I am a living form that falls on the human list. If there was one cardinal sin my father ( and his father and his father ) committed, it certainly has to be born on the "general" category. I may yet correct the folly only if I can get myself stamped an OBC or an SC or an ST for that matter. Seems like a good gift for posterity given the rate at which the Indian polity goes about the singular matter of "reservations", the lack of them on the railroads and the excess in every organization of repute. A country of a billion will be run by the dregs of the society because they look good on the vote charts of our wannabe rulers. Get a math handicap in the IITs and somebody with his middle name "ineptitude" in the IIMs and you are sure of witnessing a comedy of errors unroll. Quite a way of entertainment considering the fact that "netas" will still get operated off-shores and I will get injected with a mortein instead of a morphine after banging my head in despair. The aforementioned institutes of higher learning have been the cynosure of all eyes, none the less of those who garnish our seats of democracy. A few gems on an otherwise pathetic state just seems to make a statement in contradiction. What better than bringing them all at par with the great show that is our parliament. Merit is as abhored a word as an expletive in polite company and its sacrilege to subscribe to it. Let us all celebrate the rise and rise of our fall.

Small Town India

Nagpur does not fit the bill of being a "town" but when you have been through the travails of behemoths like Mumbai, Chennai and Bangalore, scales are subject to alterations. It can be a little befuddling to find that the very center of India may be so off its aviation map that the existence of an airport is a mystery to a few residents themselves. Such are the dynamics of economics though. Reason enough for me to categorize the place as "small" . A 24 hour long sojourn on the rail road didnt offer anything that can be remotely described pictursque and I refer to both sides of the coach's windows there. Heralded as the "orange" city, ( its the fruit and not the colour ) Nagpur came across as a beast confounded between choosing the frenzy of a metro and the low profile gaiety of a town. Food provided the most complete antithesis with the adjectives "cheap", "delicious" and "hygenic" being attached to it. The traffic, though, crawls at a snail's pace, notwithstanding the roads that may have bees straight out of the Autobahn. The untethered enthusiasm for festivals like "Rannaumi" betrays an inclination to hold onto the traditional but more so, deriving that sense of pride and bliss through collective celebration, something that seems alien to me in Bangalore. A couple of malls present a stark contrast to the otherwise bohemian city that owes its best pieces of architecture to the British empire. Clothing seemed to be in the conservative domain with high neck lines and low hem lines populating the landscape. No dearth of western outfits on show though. An epitome of what one may call "the best of both the worlds" and other may tag "stuck between cultures". The newspaper still had its priorties on local issues with no "Page 3" to be found for good measure. Publicity campaigns for huge townships where textile mills once stood promise to change the skyline of the city and taxis seem to be accelerating to replace the rickshaw with no engine to boast. The little jamboree reminded me of that kid who wants to reach out for the star filled sky without letting go of her mother's hand. May her reach know no bounds. Amen.